In The Rearview Mirror
by Tribble Master
Summary: It's December it's cold and Mary's whispering to keep them safe. wee!chester, character death, oneshot. dark au, you've been warned.


disclaimer: we travel a long road and it's a weary world where i don't own a thing

**In My Rearview Mirror**

_Someone holds me safe and warm  
__Horses dance through a silver storm  
__Figures dancing gracefully  
__Across my memory_

It's December in 1978 and Mary's asking him if he's just as excited as she is and the baby just kicked and everything is new and happening all at once. The cold is far away, and the snow storms have all finished. He's turning to Mary and he's saying _yes_, he is excited. Mary kisses his cheek and puts her arms around his shoulders. It may be the winter, but he feels safe and warm.

It's December in 1983 and a baby screams. John doesn't know how long it's been since he slept, but it should happen sometime this year. Except, he doesn't want to sleep. Can't when he keeps seeing Mary burned on to the ceiling.

Her fiery lips keep saying to him, "Keep the children safe."

The baby's still crying. "Dean!" he yells, "Get your brother." And his son, quiet as a stone, does as he's told. John just buries his head in his hands and wonders how he can keep them safe from invisible monsters.

It's December in 1984 and the issue of safety has just become infinitely more complicated. He's just learned that monsters, witches, and ghosts are horrifyingly real_. _When he dreams, if he sleeps, he sees Mary on the ceiling. Her blonde hair is curling and singed and she shakes her head. "John," she says with ember red lips, "You have a job to do."

Dean looks up at him pitifully every time he enters the apartment. It's their current home; he keeps promising Dean that they'll get a real house again. A real place and Dean doesn't even comment. Hell the kid won't say anything, but whisper to Sammy. Sammy, that cursed little bundle that's at the center of their problems. John shakes his head, he shouldn't think like that. Mary wouldn't like it. Dean's just as scared as John is.

Dean stumbles around holding Sam in his arms awkwardly. His green eyes are tired beyond in his years. "Here," John takes Sam from him, "Pack your things. We're moving."

For the first time in a year, Dean starts to feel hope again. Like maybe, things won't be so terrible. John rocks Sam gently and kisses his forehead before putting him in the crib. It's time to move on. He can't stand this town where Mary seems to live on all the ceilings.

It's December in 1989 and John is thrown into a tree by a spirit. He remembers as he hits the bark that he has to pick Sam up from kindergarten. As he picks himself up he curses again the fact that Dean can't drive. What Dean can do however, is act sullen and apparently every other damned thing except what John says. He's learning, sure, but one of these days when John gives an order he's not sure Dean will follow along.

That's just not acceptable. He tries to remember how Mary dealt with is disobedient son. Mary was always gentle hearted. John finishes the job in the graveyard and continues to mull over problems all the way back to the Impala.

Sitting in the Impala, he feels closer to her Mary. The worn finger groves of the steering wheel, and the smooth leather are all testaments to the well lived car. Mary liked to lean against his shoulder when he drove. Like the night all hell broke lose and they flew out of town when her father died. The Impala had carried them away past yellow eyes and broken promises. Now it seems the Impala only carries guns, knives, empty food packages and his weary bones across the states.

Mary's sitting suddenly in the passenger seat. She turns to him, smiles sadly and says, "This was supposed to be so much easier, John. All you have to do is take care of them."

It's not really a surprise that he drinks so much. When the car broke down months ago in South Dakota a grizzled old man at the Singer Salvage Yard had told him that he should watch what he drank. It wouldn't kill his demons, only bury him. He told the man in the trucker hat to mind his business.

Everyone has demons.

His just live on the ceiling and he knows damn well how to deal with them.

It's December in 1990 and it's colder than hell. John can't feel his toes and the kids are stealing all the blankets in the motel room. He's sewing up six stitches on his arm. Dean's watching him, offering help. He's been better this year, keeping in line. "Sam's asleep." Dean says. "Dad, can I come hunting with you?"

Sounds as good as any other half brained idea he's had so far. "You'll follow my orders?" he replies in a gruff tone. This is deadly serious, and he wants Dean to understand that. "No questions?"

Dean understands, John understands, and Mary looks down at them shaking her head silently. The next night, Sam's watching TV when they go out. It's easy enough for Dean. He's been training almost his whole life to fight a monster he never really knew. John says dig, and he does. John says duck, throw me the gun, and he absolutely freezes. Because nothing can really prepare you for the first time you see a ghost. He's heard of them, sure, but seen one? Not once in eleven years except in backward nightmares. Her eyes are blood shot, her brown hair frizzled and the wedding dress she wears is torn—so Dean freezes and stares at the ghastly woman. John repeats the order to deaf ears.

Dean blinks in an instant and the spirit's moving forward frighteningly fast. Before he knows it, he's screaming and being thrown. John fires twice too late, Dean's already down for the count. So John finishes burning the bones silently and quickly.

Dean wakes up and it's December 4th. That's what a concussion feels like, he learns. John's sharpening knives at the table, and Sam's watching the TV blissfully ignorant. John sees he's up, double checks that the stitches in his forehead are fine, and then starts to yell. "What were you _thinking?"_ he hisses. "You disobeyed a direct order!"

Dean rubs his eyes and apologizes, swears he'll never do it again, and this time John is pretty sure the kid means it. Sam looks up from his cheerios with milk running down his chin and wonders what's wrong. "Nothing." John snaps at his seven year old.

John's drinking again later that night. And this time, he doesn't give a fuck that Sam's still awake watching. They all sleep poorly. Mary's lying next to him on the rough sheets, propped up on her elbows frowning. "John, is that what you call safe?" Sparks fly off of her white night gown; her arms are rotting seared flesh.

He opens his mouth, but she puts a finger on his lips. "I only asked you for one thing John."

And she disappears.

Sam dreams about dinosaurs somehow, they don't end up exploring a garden; he ends up in a wasteland. He rolls over and forgets the feeling of dread twisting in his stomach. Dean dreams about guns and ghosts and wonders what kind of life he's in. He wakes up and it sticks to him, chokes the very inside of his throat.

John's standing in the doorway. "Pack your stuff. It's time to move."

Which is a shame, because Sammy was just starting to make friends and this ruins the whole year. But Dean bows his head and does as he told. He knows that now. They drive across two states and two days before John realizes he doesn't even know where he's headed.

Sam's crying in the backseat.

It's 1983 again and Sam's crying, Dean's silent, and John's eyes are blood shot.

John pulls the Impala over and rests his head against the steering wheel. "Take your brother inside," he says after a minute, "and get some ice cream." Dean smiles because he thinks he's earned a treat, and he immediately starts to hush Sam and lead him inside. John throws a couple dollars at them and thinks it's about time he actually did his damn job. No one deserved this life. That's what she's been saying all along, he realizes, that's what she's always wanted.

It's December 8th, 1990 and Mary can keep them safe now. He sets down the bloody knife on a discarded ice cream wrapper and looks at the back seat of the Impala. The dark leather where he kissed Mary once is heavy with the stench of copper and death. There are two boys leaning against each other with their eyes closed. Sweet, sweet boys. One with dirty blonde hair and the other with dark shaggy hair.

He'll have to clean that, he thinks.

He might have to get new leather, he wonders idly.

Oh god what have I done, he realizes.

He drives with them in the backseat for almost a week before the smell is too bad for him to carry on. As soon as their burned and the bleach is thoroughly applied to the situation, he assumes everything is finished. He's done. He drinks a little less, but he's still wasted enough that he should know not to drive when he settles into the Impala for the night.

They're still sitting there.

Later when he's sober, still denying the fact that they are there, he sees them. Sam's pitiful wail ringing in his ears. The bruises on John's arm never seem to fade but grow darker. Dean's small fists could never hold on that tight… but still John's arms are purple and green.

He laughs later as he realizes that he hasn't dreamed of Mary in a while. She must be busy with the kids, he assumes. John drives down dusty roads and abandoned highways never checking his review mirror. He never wants to look back.

John's a little bit more reckless with his hunts, and somehow he ends up back at the Salvage Yard, begging Singer to take the damn car. "Pity," the old man says, "She's beautiful."

"Mary always was." He says as he slumps away much to Singer's confusion.

Singer tries selling it, but it never lasts long. People come back to terrified to speak. Singer does what he can, but in the end he just puts it at the back of the yard. Sometimes, when he walks by it he can hear the radio turn on. Faint rhythms from a broken cassette.

It's December 8th in 2010, and Dean holds Sam closer to him. Sam's breath is erratic, he's frightened and takes solace in listening to his brother's heartbeat. "Don't worry Sammy," Dean breathes into his hair, "I'll protect you."

They fade into the broken leather and metal frame as the Impala rusts at the back of salvage yard; dusty highways and memories in the review mirror.

**_…the end…_**


End file.
